


Cleave To

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Positivity, Body Worship, Bottom Hank Anderson, Consensual Groping, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Thirsty Connor, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: Connor is the thirstiest android.





	Cleave To

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [bughnrahk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk/pseuds/bughnrahk), who beta'd the crap out of this, and also reminded me to actually post it. Also many thanks to [bughnrahk's sex wedge fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359652/chapters/35640501), which I shamelessly dragged into this. Out of affection, I swear.

Connor’s got a pretty good poker face. Comes with being an android, Hank supposes. Having the ability to turn off your facial expressions, or whatever. Still, there’s a few things Connor loses his shit over. Things that knock that creepy poker face right out of the park.

And, y’know, Hank’d been feeling a little playful that morning, standing buck naked in front of his closet as Connor shamelessly fondled Hank’s saggy old ass. Which is why he’s wearing a plain white dress shirt tucked into one of his nicer pairs of jeans, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“Nice muffin top, old man,” Reed sneers.

Hank, secure in the knowledge that Connor’s going noticeably nuts over how Hank’s outfit displays his body, smiles with genuine happiness. Partly because Hank is actually pretty fucking happy these days. Mostly because Hank displaying any emotion other than assholishness freaks Reed right the fuck out.

Sure enough, Reed cringes and scuttles away. As he goes, he knocks Hank’s precariously balanced mp3 player off his desk.

Hank had been planning to knock it off himself, but Reed’s haste presents Hank with the opportunity to circle around his desk and bend over to pick it up, giving Connor an eyeful of Hank’s ass filling out the seat of his nice jeans.

When he straightens, Connor’s expression is splitting the difference between pole-axed and horny. His terminal is showing the same case file it was ten minutes ago, when Hank last glanced his way.

“You done with those files?” Hank asks, jerking his chin at Connor’s terminal.

“Files?” Connor parrots, blinking four times in quick succession.

“Been lookin’ at that one for a while,” Hank says, casually tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. Connor’s eyes follow the motion of his hand and gets stuck on Hank’s exposed collar bones.

The tee under Hank’s white shirt isn’t his usual bargain bin crew neck. It’s one of those fancy fifteen dollar tees from the department store, a blue v-neck that shows off some of his chest hair.

Before Connor, Hank hadn’t worn a v-neck in twenty years. Now he’s got three.

“Somethin’ catch your eye?” Hank asks, perching his ass and thigh on the edge of Connor’s desk. The denim of his pant leg creaks as it pulls tight. Connor’s hand moves a single inch toward Hank’s thigh.

An indecipherable noise grinds out of Connor’s throat. Back in the day, Hank might’ve called it a keysmash.

“You’re teasing me,” Connor says.

“I was actually asking about the case you were looking at,” Hank says cooly, cocking an eyebrow. He folds his arms over his chest. It makes his flabby pecs bulge out like a woman’s tits. (It didn’t at first, what with the pounds slowly dropping off from Connor’s well-intentioned meddling, but Hank practiced in front of a mirror enough times to make it work and still look natural.) “We’re at work, Connor.”

“An astute observation, Lieutenant,” Connor says flatly, dragging his eyes away from Hank’s puffed up pecs. He physically turns his body until Hank is barely in his peripheral vision.

Hank had instituted the rule: nothing sexual at work, period. It’d been a matter of practicality and privacy at first, but the side benefit of being able to wind Connor up all day had more than made up for Connor’s passive aggressive bitching.

“There are no inconsistencies with this particular case,” Connor says, and immerses himself fully into the data.

Hank smirks and goes back to his own work, but not without one last teasing hair-tuck.

—

Connor cracks when Hank goes into the break room to eat lunch. He usually does, but this time it happens in plain sight of Officer Person, who sighs at the sight of Connor’s hand gripping Hank’s ass and turns her chair to face away.

Hank sighs and tweaks Connor’s nose, watching his eyes cross. “Hands off, Casanova. We’re still at work.”

Connor’s eyebrows furrow in frustration and he full-body grinds on Hank for a few seconds before reluctantly detaching himself.

“I’ll review the witness’ statements for conflicting information,” Connor says. His voice is perfectly even. The same can’t be said for his face, so adorably rucked up in sexual frustration, nor his wandering hands, which steal one last grope for the road. Hank watches him go, walking just a little faster than his normal brisk clip.

“Christ, I didn’t think I’d ever be jealous of you, Lieutenant,” Person grouses. “What I wouldn’t give for some sexy young thing to be that desperate for my love handles.”

“Yeah,” Hank agrees amiably, sitting across from her with his homemade salad. “It’s pretty great. ‘Cept he can’t cook for shit.”

Person’s eyebrows go up. “What, really?”

“Too damn stubborn to follow a fucking recipe.”

—

Hank continues to torture Connor through the afternoon. A pen in his mouth, his hands pushing through his hair, ditching the dress shirt altogether to show off how the v-neck hugs his chest, belly, and biceps.

“HANK. MY OFFICE,” Jeff bellows.

Hank and Jeff’s relationship has gotten a lot better since Connor started partnering with Hank full time. Hank still likes to give him shit every now and then, just to keep him from slacking off, but it’s all bark and no bite.

“Stop torturing the kid, Hank,” Jeff begins. “This is a police station. Detroit’s taxpayers aren’t paying you to flirt with your boy, and they sure as hell aren’t paying him to daydream about your fat old ass. They are, however, paying you to do your actual fucking _jobs._ ”

Hank smirks. “You victim blaming me, Jeff? He’s the one who can’t keep his grabby little hands to himself.”

Jeff leans his head into his palm with an aggrieved groan.

“Nobody here wants to know more about your damn sexual renaissance than we already do. And trust me, we already know too fucking much. Just keep it in the bedroom like normal folks. Is that too much to ask?”

“You want Connor to act like a normal person?” Hank snorts.

There’s an awkward pause as they share a knowing look.

“Yeah, okay, that’s not gonna happen, but you, on the other hand, are perfectly capable of behaving. So stop riling him up or I’ll assign him to someone else.”

“Low fucking blow, Jeff.”

“That’s Captain Fowler to you, Hank,” Jeff snaps back. “Either you get him under control or I will, and neither of you are gonna like it if I gotta step in.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Jeff. I’ve got Connor well in hand,” Hank growls, leering.

“TMI, ANDERSON,” Jeff shouts. “TEE EM FUCKING EYE.”

Hank laughs and saunters out of Jeff’s office, pouring enough sway into his thick thighs and hips to make Jeff groan in disgust.

“Is everything alright?” Connor asks when Hank makes it back to his desk.

Hank just snickers.

* * *

A case comes in with thirty minutes left on Hank’s shift. Connor, the little shit, actually tries to hide it from him. On the way out to the car, Hank bops him on the forehead with a tablet, then tucks the edge under Connor’s chin, lifting his face up as Hank steps into his personal space.

“Careful, Connor. Keep hiding cases from me and I’m gonna start thinking you’re a dirty cop,” Hank purrs, sliding a foot between Connor’s.

Connor’s hands snake around to latch onto Hank’s ass, stretching wide to collect as much real estate as possible. He uses his grip to pull Hank to him, grinding his lower half sinuously against Hank’s.

“Dirty: obscene, pornographic, lewd,” Connor recites. “Perhaps your hunch is right, Lieutenant. I’ve been preoccupied by dirty thoughts all day.”

Hank’s reply is cut off by Reed.

“In the fucking LOBBY?” Reed shrieks.

Connor just wraps his arms tighter around Hank, one arm coming up around Hank’s waist and the other crossing over to grab the far ass cheek. He levels his best DNFW stare at Reed, whose face goes purple with apoplectic rage.

Chris, darling angel of a man, drags Reed away kicking and screaming obscenities they probably hear all the way in Canada.

\--

“CONNOR. MY OFFICE.”

\--

By the time they make it home from the crime scene, Hank is legitimately exhausted and ready to fall into bed.

Connor, on the other hand, is buzzing like a damn vibrator, his hands squeezing Hank’s soft spots like he’s a stress ball.

“I’m tired, Connor.” Hank gently pushes him away.

“I know.” Connor lets himself be pushed. He looks like a damn kicked puppy, if a kicked puppy could simultaneously be a desperately thirsty twink.

Hank sighs, huge and put-upon, and Connor lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

“I’ll get everything ready,” he says, and has the gall to wink at Hank. He darts off, quick as a minnow, and Hank makes his leisurely way to the bathroom for a quick rinse under the hot water.

Connor is waiting with a towel when he gets out, and he cheerfully wipes Hank down, distracting them both with gropes and kisses.

“C’mon, Connor. Lemme lay down before I fall down,” Hank murmurs, trying to herd Connor out of the bathroom. Connor, of course, can’t be moved unless he wants to be, and refuses to budge, wrapping his arms around Hank’s waist and beaming like a motherfucking star. Hank has a half-second to suspect shenanigans before he’s being swept off his feet and into Connor’s arms like some blushing fucking bride.

Well, he’s blushing, at least.

He puts up the expected level of fuss, cussing Connor out half-heartedly as he’s carried to the bedroom, where the sheets have been turned down in preparation. He’s laid on the bed as delicately as spun glass, and Connor clambers onto the bed after him.

“Shoes, idiot,” Hank scolds fondly.

Connor blinks, looking down at himself. Hank makes himself comfortable in the center of the bed, watching Connor strip down to his pale, mole-spotted skin. His crotch is flat as a Ken doll at the moment. Something about the bulk of male genitals interfering with his sprint efficiency. (More like Hank giving him inconvenient boners at work, but six of one, half a dozen of the other.)

Connor pulls open the bedside drawer where he keeps his dicks. “Which one do you want?”

Hank shrugs. “The skinny one.”

He likes all kinds of dicks, but sometimes he’s just not in the mood to get reamed by a fucking beer can. They usually save that for the weekend, when Hank can take a day to recover from a vigorous fucking.

Connor’s soft white dick starts lengthening the second it connects to his body, his synthetic skin not quite quick enough to keep up with how fast it fills out.  It’s funny to watch, as long as Hank doesn’t think about it too hard. A sexier reminder of Connor’s unnatural humanity.

De-clothed and re-dicked, Connor climbs back onto the bed, sprawling over Hank like he’s Connor’s personal mattress. The weight of him feels good, and Hank groans under Connor’s full-body grind. Sure, Hank enjoys Connor rubbing up on him during the day, but that’s nothing compared to this: skin to skin, lip to flushed, spit-slick lip. Hank’s legs fall open and Connor settles in, inhumanly firm and just a mite painful as Hank grinds his dick against Connor’s belly.

Connor’s hands are busy, digging into Hank’s fleshy flanks, diminished somewhat but still thick enough to give Connor a good handful. They roam up to his chest, carding through the hair and kneading at Hank’s squishy pecs.

“Hank,” Connor moans against Hank’s mouth. “Hank, Hank, Hank.”

Like his own personal prayer, his rA9, Hank save him, though he walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

“Yeah, I’m here. I got you, Connor. I got you.”

Connor whines into the kiss, rutting against Hank’s hip, dick riding the soft crease between thigh and gut. His groping, gripping hands get more desperate, more forceful. Hank’s hands glide down the slope of his back to his hard plastic ass, pulling him deeper into the cradle of Hank’s thighs.

“Haaaank,” Connor groans. Hank lets him rut until he comes, back bowing into a taut arch as his LED gleams a bright, unwavering yellow. Hank can’t see Connor’s face--it’s pressed to Hank’s chest--but he knows Connor’s o-face. Utterly slack, all that cutting-edge processing power turned inward.

It’s a helluva thing, androids being able to come, able to feel such primal, devastating pleasure.

Connor had described it once. The first breach of a river over the edge of a tall cliff, pleasure like the freefall, a wave of data with seemingly no end, until the crash on the rocks far below, the first shattering impact, the churn and froth and spray. A few seconds of total sensory deprivation as his processors abandon all inputs to prioritize the sudden deluge.

A helluva thing.

Connor’s mouth finds Hank’s nipple and he tongues it sloppily, pursing his lips over it as it stiffens at the contact. Hank groans and cups Connor’s head, pressing it down into his chest.

It takes a minute or so for Connor’s full functionality to return.

Hank, feeling fuzzy and indulgent but a little bored, says, “This weekend, I’m gonna ride you until you beg for mercy.”

Connor groans. “Haaaank.” His hands squeeze under Hank to get a double handful of his ass.

“C’mon, lemme turn over.”

Hank has to practically peel Connor off him in order to roll onto his belly, and the second he does, Connor is back on him, clinging like a needy octopus. He ruts his still hard dick into the crease of Hank’s ass a few times, then slides down the bed, cramming his face and fingers into Hank’s crack and going to town on his hole.

Hank, honest-to-god tired from a long day at work, happily lies there and takes it. It’s nice to be the passive one, for once. Almost all the people he’d been with before, men and women alike, had seen his body, his height and strength, and cast him as the aggressor. He always enjoyed it, and still enjoys fucking Connor against a wall, or over the back of the couch, or on the kitchen table. But Christ, he’s too old for some of the more athletic stuff he used to get up to. Even getting down on his knees to blow Connor takes planning these days. His back and joints just aren’t what they used to be.

And besides, it’s nice to be pampered by someone who obviously gets so much enjoyment out of it. Makes him feel wanted again. Desired. Craved. _Sexy._

Speaking of wanting, Hank’s starting to really feel it, his ass singing a fucking aria around Connor’s tongue and fingers. He grabs a pillow and whaps Connor on the head with it.

Connor legit groans as he unearths himself from the depths of Hank’s ass, but obediently takes the pillow and helps Hank get it situated under his hips and belly so his back doesn’t ache in the morning. Hank had drawn the line at a foam wedge, compromising Connor down to an obnoxiously expensive hybrid memory microfoam pillow that essentially serves the same purpose without impinging too much on Hank’s pride. (Hank wishes he could call it the sex pillow, but he’d bought three more ‘cause it felt so damn nice, so now it’s just ‘a pillow’.)

Connor, sweet, bitchy, clingy, vicious Connor, gently combs the thick mass of hair back from Hank’s face with cool fingers before pushing in. He’d opened Hank up so well, with so much lube, that there’s hardly any friction at all, just the feeling of fullness, of a welcome intrusion. Hank bears down on it, groaning.

Connor lays on Hank’s back and mouths at his nape and the span of his shoulders, licking and biting and sucking deep hickies into the thick skin. His hands finally stop roaming when they find Hank’s, pressing back-to-palm as their fingers intertwine. Hank’s eyes drift closed. He lets himself sink into the physical sensations, into the deep, roiling pleasure sloshing in his groin. He revels in the sensuality of Connor’s cool weight blanketing him and the soft pillowcase cupping his hard cock. Hank relaxes utterly into the intimacy of the moment and allows his defenses to fall away, leaving his battered old heart bare and tender in Connor’s hands.

Connor has never once given him reason to regret it.

“Hank,” Connor moans. He goes still, with only the occasional squeeze of his hands around Hank’s to show he’s still awake.

Hank likes this, too. When the scorching summer wildfire of Connor’s epic lust for Hank condenses down into a smoldering ember. No longer throwing off burning heat, but still ready to be stoked into flame at a moment’s notice.

Connor, with his inhuman stamina, can theoretically stay like this forever. He’s occasionally spent whole nights clinging to a sleeping Hank’s back like a horny backpack, only shifting to keep his hard cock inside Hank’s ass. No orgasm, just six to eight hours of patient edging. Hank usually wakes up the next morning to Connor gently rocking into him, the best alarm clock Hank’s ever had.

Hank wouldn’t mind if tonight is one of those nights. On the other hand, he feels a little guilty for winding Connor up all the livelong day but not having the energy to follow through. He reaches back and slaps Connor on the hip.

“How do you want me?”

Connor grunts and rolls his hips a few times, the sudden friction making Hank moan. He pulls out of Hank with a whine, like it hurts to leave, and ducks down to lavish Hank’s lube-sloppy hole with a little more attention before sliding off the foot of the bed. He digs his fingers deep into Hank’s soft hips, flips him, and drags him down the length of the bed so Hank’s ass is right at the edge.

Hank’s bed is low, the mattress held up a scant few inches from the floor by the frame. Plenty low enough for Connor, who is leggy as hell, to kneel and get some good leverage for fucking Hank.

Even though Hank has spent all day doing his level best to drive Connor nuts, he goes that last few yards, pulling a thigh up to his chest and reaching down to slip his own fingers into his ass. Connor’s eyes go right to it. He watches, rapt, like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see it.

“Like that?”

“Hank,” Connor groans. His hands squeeze and knead the soft insides of Hank’s thighs as he ducks down to get a close-up view.

“Hold my legs up,” Hank says, and with Connor’s strength curling Hank’s ass up, he reaches down with his other hand to make a proper show of it. He fingers himself, grips and rolls his balls, strokes his cock with the lube Connor used to slick his ass. He swipes a bead of precome onto one finger and holds it out for Connor to taste. Connor’s eyes flutter shut as he tongues the digit clean.

“Now get your dick in there and fuck me, lover.” Hank sets his ankle on Connor’s shoulder and uses it to reel him in.

Sex is the only time Connor actually does what Hank tells him to. It’d piss Hank off if Connor wasn’t so damn cute about it, fumbling his own dick in his eagerness.

He slides in sweet and easy, eyes riveted to the sight of his dick stretching Hank’s ass. His mouth hangs open like a panting dog, so Hank pulls him down by the nape, guiding his greedy mouth straight to Hank’s nipple. Connor latches on like a starved leech. Hank gasps, arching up into Connor’s mouth as much as his position allows, kneading his other tit until Connor nudges his hand away to take over.

“You like my tits, sweetheart?” Hank wraps his legs around Connor’s waist and rocks his ass into Connor’s short, grinding thrusts. Connor tries to talk through a mouthful of flesh, but it’s hopelessly muffled.

“Can’t get enough of ‘em, can you. And my ass, _christ_. Feeling me up all day like you’ll die if you don’t get your daily handful. What did mean ol’ Jeff say to you, hm? Did he scold you for putting your hands all over the goods?”

Hank holds Connor tighter to his chest, and Connor obligingly bites down on the soft mound, digging deep so Hank'll bruise spectacularly. Hank hisses at the sharp flare of pain, then pants at the scrape of a rough tongue over his hard nipple.

“Suck, honey. Suck on it hard for me.”

Connor breathes hard out of his nose, expelling all the air from his artificial lung. He closes the seal and forces a partial vacuum in his mouth. Blood rushes to the surface of Hank’s skin, swelling the soft tissue of his areola and nipple. Connor’s rough tongue blankets the swollen nub and Hank shouts, ass clenching around Connor’s cock, fingernails digging into Connor’s skin to find the smooth plastic beneath it.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Gimme that mouth,” Hank whines. “Gimme your mouth.”

Connor lavishes Hank’s swollen nipple with careful attention and insatiable enthusiasm. Flat, lingering drags mixed with teasing flicks. The tip of his tongue tracing geometrically perfect circles around the darkened areola, then spiraling inward to assault Hank’s beleaguered nipple. A hint of teeth wrings a hard grunt from deep in Hank’s belly.

Hank feels dazed and beloved, happily drowning in the pleasure zinging through his body. He wants to feel like this forever. He wants more, _now_.

“The other one, baby. My other tit needs you, too.” Hank nudges at his head. Connor unseals his mouth with a loud pop and dives tongue-first at the other pec, dragging his tongue along the sweaty crease of the underboob. One hand attaches to Hank’s swollen, bite-ringed pec, gently thumbing the sensitive nipple. The other hand gropes and grabs its way down Hank’s side to his ass, splaying wide over the curve of his cheek. One finger slips into Hank’s crack to lay on the stretched ring of muscle clinging greedily to Connor’s cock.

Connor sucks Hank’s other nipple into his mouth, and that’s about when Hank hits his limit. The fingers on his swollen, over sensitive nipple, the slender cock nudging his prostate with each hard, grinding thrust, Connor’s taut belly against Hank’s hard cock--

Hank’s whole body clenches, arms and legs squeezing Connor tight to his body as he shouts through the first wave of searing pleasure, gasping and groaning as Connor keeps right on going. Connor knows not to stop, just keeps fucking him like he wants to make Hank’s ass his permanent address. Sucks on his tit until it’s a red and aching twin to the first. Grinds his belly against Hank’s softening dick until Hank is a limp, keening mess, riding the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain, signals all twisted up in his body, rising up like an unstoppable tsunami headed straight for an impassable cliff. Connor’s finger, balanced on the rim of Hank’s ass, slips inside to grind ruthlessly against Hank’s prostate. Hank clenches again, all the confused signals lighting up green across the board as Hank sobs, gasping for breath, clinging to Connor because he’s the only solid thing left in the universe.

It feels like being hit by a meteor, hard and fast and burning hot out of nowhere, being pulverized by pain in pleasure’s clothing and letting it in to devour him whole. His lungs heave like bellows as his gut strains on each pulse, lifting his shoulders clear up off the mattress. In contrast, his head lolls back, eyes unseeing, ears unhearing, throat long and buzzing with  deep, hard grunts and moans. Connor touches his lips to it, chasing the vibrations down Hank’s throat, through the thick grey thatch of sweat-damp chest hair, coming to rest off center of Hank’s sternum. He presses the flat of his sensitive tongue to Hank’s chest, and measures out fractions of fractions of seconds between each shudder of Hank’s thundering heartbeat.

Connor’s hands glide in long, firm swoops over Hank’s body, holding him together as he breaks under the pressure and slowly, slowly reforms. Hank blinks lazily up at the ceiling until he can finally focus, until his ears can finally perceive Connor quietly whispering his name, “ _Hank, Hank, Hank, Hank--_ ”

“Gotchu, Con,” Hank slurs, and taps his heel against Connor’s ass, spurring him on to start moving again. “C’mon, give it here.”

It’s actually painful now, the friction of Connor’s body in and over his. Hank bears it happily, greedily, knowing that Connor would stop on a dime if Hank gave even the slightest signal. Even so, Connor moves carefully, pumping his hips in short, shallow bursts. He’s wound so tight, but his hands are feather-light on Hank’s hips.

“I wan’ it,” Hank says over Connor’s endless chanting. He brings Connor’s face up to his and kisses him, little more than a sloppy mash of lips, but still utterly heartfelt.

“Want you in me always,” Hank sighs, and Connor falls apart, going rigid, face slack and lifeless as he comes, the staticky whine of Hank’s name erupting from the speakers at the back of his throat. 

* * *

The next morning, Hank’s nipples are still sensitive and swollen, hardening at the slightest brush of sensation. He has to swat Connor’s grabby hands away to put on his shirt, a silky-smooth, clinging v-neck that’s so soft Connor likes touching it even when Hank’s body isn’t in it. He foregoes an overshirt.

He walks into the precinct, aching in all the best ways, probably glowing like the sun. One hand is hooked into the jacket slung over his shoulder. The other is tangled firmly with Connor’s.

Reed takes one look at Hank and shrieks. He slaps a hand over his eyes, nearly cracking his skull on a desk as he runs away, blindly tripping over trash cans and bouncing off cop, witness, and criminal alike.

Jeff pokes his head out of his office just long enough to bellow, “For fuck’s actual sake, Hank! Put your damn jacket on. Nobody wants to see the high beams.”

Hank ignores them, smiling indulgently at Connor even when the thirsty little bastard literally sticks his hand down the back of Hank’s pants to grope his ass in front of the whole fucking station.

**Author's Note:**

> Hank taps Connor on the nose with a fingertip.  
> "Not at work, Detective," he warns.  
> Connor pouts, and begrudgingly extracts his hand from the back of Hank's jeans.


End file.
